


In a Vision or in None

by coricomile



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Kid Fic, M/M, Vault 112
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:32:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4801310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The important part is this: hanging out on the couch with his husband with their kid pretending to sleep in the next room. He needs to go to the bar and regrow his balls. He's got it so bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Vision or in None

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to say a huge thank you to [mcusekat](http://mcusekat.tumblr.com) who did a fantastic beta for me. 
> 
> Spoilery trigger warning in notes at the bottom.

  
_All that we see or seem  
Is but a dream within a dream._  
\- Edgar Allen Poe

Clint loves the camp. It's small enough that he knows all the kids, close enough to home that he doesn't have to live with another instructor, and pays him to do something he likes all day. He'd stumbled onto it on accident a while ago and hasn't looked back since.

This year his class is only four kids, each one of them more earnest than the next, but he gets the chance to do one-on-one work with them. David's a total lost cause, as much as Clint hates to admit defeat, but Brianna's learning faster than Clint can teach her. He thinks he can maybe talk her into helping him out next year with his new class.

"David, my man, you don't have to choke the bow," Clint says, just as he has every day for the past two weeks. The kid's got a death grip on the riser, his little knuckles gone white and his face screwed up in concentration. His glasses keep getting tangled up in the bowstring somehow. It would be funny if it weren't so damn sad. 

"Why can't I do it?" David asks. He's ten, all dark hair and willowy limbs. Clint's seen photos of Bruce at this age and the resemblance is almost uncanny. Maybe that's why Clint's got such a soft spot for him. Anyone else and he'd be pulling his hair out. 

Daddyhood is making him totally soft. 

"You're thinking way too much, kid," Clint says. He kneels down and pries David's fingers loose. Carefully, he wraps his hands around David's and helps him aim and pull the bowstring. "Close your eyes and take a breath." David's back expands and contracts as he does what he's told. "Open and loose."

Clint lets him go a second before David lets the arrow fly. It hits the outside ring of the target with a quiet thud. David spins around, nearly taking Clint's head off with his bow, and lets out a small war cry. Clint ruffles his hair and stands back up.

"See?" He asks. "Just got to let your body do the work for you. You'll do fine." David gives him the tiniest bro hug ever and goes back to choking the hell out of the riser for his next shot. Clint sighs and gives up. He'll try again tomorrow.

At the end of class, he helps the kids pick up their practice arrows and put everything back in the store room. He dismantles his own bow, tucks it into its case, and gives himself a mental pat on the back. One more day of being a productive member of society. Bruce will be proud of him, he thinks.

Clint grabs a muffin from the mess hall on his way out and eats it in the car on the way back home. There's a chance that Bruce has made dinner, but Clint's not holding his breath. Bruce has always been skinny, and there's a good reason why. Clint likes to think that one day he'll fatten him up to normal person size, but he's not holding his breath on that one either. 

Their house is a tiny one floor thing in upstate New York, hidden away behind a long driveway and a row of trees. Bruce had let him paint the outside a soft shade of lavender last summer and it looks awesome and homey. Clint parks his crappy truck next to Bruce's tiny economy car and walks up the three steps to the porch, whistling to himself. 

He loves the camp, yeah, but he loves this even more. Coming home, seeing Bruce and the nugget, belonging somewhere. There's an empty space in his chest saved for his stupid purple house with its overgrown lawn and his family. He's got regrets, but not about this. 

Clint's key ring is more lanyards than keys, too heavy and bulky to stuff in his pocket, but he refuses to take a single one off, will add more every time one is handed to him. He loves the kids and if they like him back? Awesome. He'll totally take it.

He unlocks the front door, steps over the wonky green rug in the front hall, and resists the urge to call _honey, I'm home_. Bruce doesn't think it's funny because Bruce's sense of humor has yet to be developed into something resembling human. Clint's working on it.

Bruce is in the living room, surrounded by textbooks and an unhealthy number of toys. There's a Lego in his hair that Clint's not going to point out. Naomi is curled up beside him, cradling a little green monster doll to her tiny chest, dozing off on his knee. Clint slides his phone out of his pocket and snaps a photo.

"Long day?" He asks, carefully settling his bow case on top of the refrigerator. Naomi hasn't tried to get into it yet, but Clint has faith in his little brat. She's going to be just as bad as the two of them about sticking her nose where it doesn't belong.

"We missed nap time," Bruce says, wincing. The Lego in his hair bounces in his curls but refuses to fall out. Clint can hear the apology under it. Bruce has gotten better about remembering to look at a clock every now and then, but old habits die hard. 

Clint drops a kiss next to the Lego before swooping down and grabbing Naomi underneath the arms. She squeals and kicks, her stuffed toy adding to all the crap on the ground, and tugs at Clint's hair as he pretends to fly her around the room.

"Daddy," she shouts next to his ear. Her little voice is shrill and high and Clint wants to hear it for the rest of his life. 

"Monkey!" Clint shouts back, turning his head to save her little eardrums. Naomi scrambles up to sit in his shoulders, feet digging into all of his tender places, and grabs his hair to stabilize herself. They haven't been able to get her to stop the hair pulling thing. Clint's got it easier- there's not a whole lot to grab onto- but Bruce might develop a bald spot sooner rather than later. 

"Baba work," Naomi says, pointing at the books on the coffee table. She's got something wet on her dress. Clint's not going to ask. 

"I see that," he says. "What's up, Professor? Curing cancer?"

"Making notes for a presentation," Bruce says. He slouches back into the couch cushions, pushing his glasses up over his forehead to rub at his eyes. Ah. That explains it. 

Bruce is a great teacher. He's patient enough to explain theoretical physics to even someone as flighty as Clint. But put him on a stage and make him talk to a room full of other teachers? Not his favorite activity. 

"Practice on the monkey," Clint says, plopping her down on Bruce's lap. He steals Bruce's note cards and pen and tucks them away in his pockets. "I'll start dinner."

He listens to Bruce run through a few topics, much to to Naomi's four-year-old approval, and pulls the rice out of the cupboard. There's way more tickle fights than would probably be acceptable at the conference, but it's been awhile since he attended one. The rules can always change. 

By time he's got dinner on the table, Bruce has lost the work glaze from his eyes and Naomi is properly tuckered out. She's going to sleep _so good_. Maybe he can get lucky tonight. Anything is possible. 

They tuck Naomi in after she's eaten a respectable amount and collapse together on the couch. Bruce wraps an arm around Clint's shoulders and rubs idly at the tense muscles in Clint's left shoulder. It's domestic as all hell and Clint loves every second of it. 

"So what's the presentation?" Clint asks, rubbing his cold nose against Bruce's jaw. His two day stubble is perfect for scratching itches. 

"String theory," Bruce says. He doesn't go into detail because he's learned his lesson. "All I want to do is write the paper, do the experiments, and move on. Why can't someone else do the presentations?"

"Not adorable enough," Clint says. He reaches around and finally takes the Lego out of Bruce's hair, presenting it like a magician. "You've got the charm."

"How long has that been there?" Bruce asks, plucking it from Clint's fingers and squinting at it like it'd answer. 

"Since I got home at least," Clint says. He and Naomi spent a lot of dinner giggling to one another while Bruce looked on with a smile that was equal parts confused and suspicious. "It adds personality. It can be your thing."

"Sometimes I remember that I chose to marry you and feel shame." Bruce taps Clint's forehead with the edge of the Lego and drops it into his lap. Clint gives him his best shit eating grin and steals the remote. 

He's gotten used to the weight of his ring, gotten used to the flash of gold at the edge of his vision whenever he waves or shoots. The wedding is a blur, a combination of too much champagne and too many nerves blurring the edges of his memory, but that's not really the important part. 

The important part is this: hanging out on the couch with his husband with their kid pretending to sleep in the next room. He needs to go to the bar and regrow his balls. He's got it so bad. 

"I'm kind of excited for it," Bruce says quietly, voice almost lost under the sound of Top Gun. Clint nips his cheek and settles in. 

\---

Bruce looks damn good in a suit. _Damn_ good. His hair is as unruly as ever and his face is pink with nerves, but his suit is fresh pressed and hugging him nicely around the hips and shoulders. Clint makes no secret of ogling Bruce's ass over Naomi's head. 

Clint's suit is already a mass of wrinkles and stained dress shirt. Naomi's got her fingers tangled in Clint's tie, periodically choking him and laughing gleefully. Their kid's a total freak. 

"Dude, stop fussing," Clint says, hitching Naomi up on his hip. Her dress- a deep purple fluffy thing that matches their ties- bunches up around her knees. It'll be a total loss by the end of the night, but Clint's spent a lot of time finding thrift stores. Naomi isn't picky and neither is he. "You look great. You'll give them a great speech and then we'll go home and eat cake. _Cake_ , Bruce."

Bruce smiles a little, shuffling his note cards in his hands. The sounds of people shuffling around in the hall keep getting louder, the first person up about to head onto the stage, and Clint knows he has to head in soon, but he hates leaving when Bruce is so nervous. 

"Give Baba a kiss for luck," he tells Naomi, leaning forward so she can reach him without passing her off. If she so much as touches his suit, it'll be a loss too. His girl has a gift, he'll give her that.

Naomi presses a sloppy kiss to Bruce's cheek, smacking her lips and tugging his hair. Clint kisses the other cheek, a little less sloppy but definitely as loud, and carts Naomi off to the theatre. 

"Evening, Mr. Barton," Sara says when he stop by to get his name badge. She's a second year grad student and Bruce's favorite by far, even if he won't admit it. It helps that she's babysat Naomi a few times when they sorely needed a date night. "Hey, Nomi."

"Sara!" Naomi squeals. She wiggles in Clint's arms until he hands her off to Sara, little hands immediately headed for Sara's braids. Sara doesn't so much as flinch. The woman is a wonder. "Baba is talking tonight."

"Yeah?" Sara asks, managing to stick Naomi's name tag on without breaking stride. Clint tacks his own onto his lapel and wonders how long it'll last. "You gonna be quiet and listen to everyone?" Naomi nods enthusiastically. She holds up three fingers- scouts honor, just like Clint showed her- and sticks them into her mouth. Sara grins and hands her back. "Have a good time, guys."

"Thanks Sara," Clint says. He pats her shoulder as he passes through the door. 

They have reserved seats near the front. Naomi whines when he puts her down, balling up her fists and raising her voice over the murmur of the crowd, but Clint forces her to stay in her seat. It's a hard won battle, but by the time the first speaker is introduced, she's behaving as much as she ever does. 

Clint hates the conferences as much as Bruce does; the material is so far over his head that it's not even funny. And it's not like he can whip out his phone and play Angry Birds until Bruce goes on. Instead, he watches Naomi play with her ever present doll and gives in to the occasional game of thumb war. 

Naomi looks more like Bruce than him. She's got his wide mouth and curly dark hair and gigantic brown eyes, and when she's been out into the sun too long freckles break out across her skin in tiny constellations. She's already showing signs of having Clint's nose, which he can't apologize enough for, but that's about where the resemblance stops. Clint's already got a ‘beating boys back’ plan in his mind, ready for the day when she's not his little girl anymore.

She grows so fast it's almost scary. It feels like she gets bigger every time he blinks. He can't remember holding her as a baby, can't remember anything but now, his kid already as tall as his knee and almost too heavy to carry. It's exciting and depressing all at once. Sometimes, he feels so old. 

When Bruce is announced, Clint and Naomi clap extra hard. Bruce glances down at them, his nerves visible, and Clint gives him a thumbs up. Beside him, Naomi does the same thing. Bruce smiles and steps up to the podium. 

He kills it. He always does. 

\---

Clint's new class is bigger than the last one, but this time he's got Brianna standing proudly at his side ready to unleash hell. She's grown half a foot in the last year, everything stretched out to gawky teenager lengths, but her aim is as sharp and sure as ever. She wants to do beauty pageants, she tells him as she cleans and restrings her bow. Clint's totally going to help her master the talent portion. No beauty queen will be able to top his protégé, he'll make damn sure of it. 

"We got a late entry," Brianna says, nodding her head towards the row of targets. There's a scrawny scrap of a boy prodding at the plastic, his hands too big for his body and his chest shaking every few minutes as he coughs. His bright blonde hair is blinding in the sunlight. "Steve, I think? His mom dropped him off last night. Guess he was in the hospital for bronchitis or pneumonia or something when camp started?"

"So, naturally, the best place for him is around lots of other disease spreading kids," Clint says. He shakes his head and grabs another practice bow from the rack. "Keep an eye on him, alright? I don't want him getting the other kids sick if he's still got something."

"Sir, yes sir," Brianna says, shooting him a grin and a salute. He tugs her braid and heads over to the kid. 

There's ten minutes before class officially starts, but all his kids are already loitering around, prodding each other with the dull ends of their practice arrows. Clint should probably stop them, but no one's popped out an eye or drawn blood yet and that's good enough for him. 

"Steve, right?" Clint asks the kid. Big blue eyes blink up at him, clear and sharp. He looks familiar, something about the way he holds himself, but Clint knows he's never had him before. Clint remembers every kid, every face, every first bullseye. "Welcome to the team."

"Thanks," Steve says, still watching him too closely. He's a creepy little thing. Clint edges away from him with a tight smile and grabs Brianna by the arm.

"Hey, can you go over basics with the new kid while I start class?" He asks. Brianna gives him a funny look but heads over to Steve anyway. Normally Clint likes to deal with the new kids himself. There's nothing quite like seeing the first time they get it. But Steve's giving him the heebie jeebies in a bad way. 

Class goes fairly smoothly. He's got nine kids that already have the basics down and Steve, who's been quarantined over in the corner with Brianna. None of them have the same natural talent that Brianna does, but they seem to be enjoying themselves, which is all Clint can really ask for. 

At the end, Clint has them sit behind them and nocks four arrows. He's showing off and totally unashamed to admit it. This is the perfect job. He gets to do something he loves all day, gets to teach others how to do it, and gets all the adoration he could ever want. It's not hard to impress a bunch of pre-teens, but their applause when all four arrows sink into the target is more enthusiastic than anything he's ever heard. 

"You're such a ham," Brianna says affectionately as she packs up her bow. Clint grins at her.

"Says Miss New York," he says. Brianna pokes her tongue out at him and nods over his shoulder. "You've got company. He's not really any good, but he's trying. Give him the Barton pep talk?"

"Who's the boss here?" Clint asks, already feeling the creeping sensation of goosebumps across his arms. He's got to snap out of it. So what if the kid's a sickly little thing with a thousand yard stare? He had a kid with anger issues two years ago that snapped four bows in half over the course of three months and it had worked out kind of okay. He knows how to deal with kids. It's _literally_ his job. 

"Keep telling yourself that," Brianna says. She slings her case over her shoulder and gives him a jaunty salute. "See you Saturday for talent practice?"

"Definitely," Clint says. "Wear the sparkly dress. Naomi will do actual flips for it." Naomi gets stars in her eyes every time she so much as hears Brianna's name. Clint's always hoped she'd be more of a tomboy, but if she ever wants to do the creepy baby pageants, he and Bruce will be right in the front seats, doing their best not to embarrass her. 

"Hello," Steve says, taking up the place Brianna has just vacated. He's small but he holds himself ramrod straight, hands held neatly at his sides. Sign the kid up for the military. He's halfway there already.

"Hey," Clint replies. He keeps himself from scratching at the itchy place on the back of his neck. "Bri said things went well." Steve smiles, and it's a lot like the one Bruce gets right after a compliment. Not quite believing, but too graceful to deny it. 

"She might be exaggerating," Steve says. He tips his head at Clint's open case. "You're really good. Where did you learn?" 

"Taught myself," Clint says proudly. He feels like he was born with a bow in his hand. It's the most natural thing in the world to him. He doesn't remember picking up the skills, but he remembers the slowly forming calluses, remembers his biceps growing as he moved up to heavier and heavier bowstrings. "I imagine it's a little easier when you've got someone who knows what they're doing leading the way."

"Ever consider doing a travelling show?" Steve asks. It's weird just like everything about the kid is weird, but it's not the first time someone's mentioned it. "I bet you would do great."

"Nah," Clint says with a forced laugh. "I like what I do here, and I think the family's gotten pretty used to New York." Steve gives him an unreadable look, head cocked to the side. 

"You have kids?" He asks. Clint fights a shiver. He glances over his shoulder at the parking lot. It's slowly emptying out, his pickup a lonely little blip on the gravel. 

"Just the one," he says. He shuts his case, slings it over his shoulder, and claps a hand over Steve's skinny shoulder. It feels weird under his palm, too broad, and he lets go too quickly. "Speaking of, I'm going to head out. Get dinner on the table and everything. See you tomorrow."

Steve says something, but Clint's already retreating toward the parking lot. He's got to get over the weirdness sooner rather than later. Summer lasts forever.

\---

Bruce is in the dining room, head against the table, snoring softly. Naomi sits beside him, crayon in hand, trying to copy molecular structures on the back of her Pokemon coloring book. They're actually pretty good, from what Clint can see. Oh, god, their kid is totally going to be a nerd. He's totally out numbered. 

"Baba's sleeping," Naomi says. She hasn't really got the hang of whispering, no matter how hard she tries, and Bruce jerks awake, head snapping up. There is definitely a pen caught in his curls from where he tucked it behind his ear earlier. A smudge of ink winds across his cheek and up into his temple.

"Not anymore," Bruce mumbles. His voice is low and sleep heavy. A curl of arousal hits Clint square in the gut. It's been awhile since they've had special adult time. Naomi's developed a bad habit of bursting into their room without warning and Clint's trying really hard not to screw her up. "How was camp?"

"Weird," Clint says as he tucks his case at the top of the fridge. Naomi watches him, her dark eyes narrowed and calculating. He's going to have to find a new hiding place soon. "There's a new kid. He's kind of... weird."

"They're twenty-first century kids taking archery," Bruce says. He nods approvingly at Naomi's molecules and sets his grading off to the side. The top sheet has a lot of red on it. Clint feels bad for the poor bastard that gets it back. "They're all weird."

"You are so funny," Clint says. He pulls the pen from Bruce's hair and draws a star on his forehead. Bruce frowns and Naomi giggles gleefully, pressing her fingertip to it and smearing the ink. Bruce's face looks like a bad sketch. "A real riot."

"Bad habits," Bruce says, stealing the pen away. Clint grins and raises his eyebrows in challenge. Bruce will eventually get him back in an underhanded and sneaky way. Clint's looking forward to it. 

Clint and Naomi make dinner while Bruce showers. It's boxed mac and cheese and sandwiches, nothing fancy, but definitely at the top of Naomi approved dishes. She gets cheese powder everywhere and manages to get ketchup in her unruly hair, but everything else goes fairly well. Clint takes stock of the mess in the kitchen and dining room and winces. He and Bruce aren't exactly what people would call neat. Their kid's doomed to a life of chaos. 

"Aw, Nomi, no," Clint says, grabbing Bruce's stack of grading away before Naomi can get her sticky hands on them. The one with all the red pen now has a smudge of greasy cheese sauce on the top, but it'll probably go unnoticed under the great whopping F just an inch away. 

"It looks good," Bruce says from the doorway, picking Naomi up and settling her into her seat. She points out the sandwiches she made and forces one into Bruce's hands. Bruce takes it gracefully, giving her a small, soft smile. He eyes the papers in Clint's hands and Clint gives him a small shrug. "Thank you."

Naomi babbles about her day, voice too loud and mac and cheese slopping all over the table, and Clint nods in all the appropriate places. Jackie the babysitter has apparently gotten her turned onto ancient Spice Girl tapes, and Naomi tells them how she wants to have Scary Spice hair. Clint wants to tell her that she's already kind of got it down- really, they're awful parents, shouldn't their little girl be more put together?- but Bruce shakes his head. 

After dinner, they curl up on the couch and watch too much Spongebob Squarepants. Naomi leans her head on Bruce's chest and rests her feet in Clint's lap. Her little monster doll is cradled in her arms. Every once in awhile she shakes it and talks back to the TV in a deep voice. Bruce pats her hair every time, breaking away from reading papers to answer whatever questions she may have. 

Clint watches them and tries to calm his beating heart. He loves them _so fucking much_. He's scared, constantly, that he's going to screw Naomi up, that he's going to give her his weird mental tics and insecurity, scared that he's going to make it hard for her to make friends, fall in love, make a life for herself outside of their little purple house in the country. But he's got Bruce- Bruce who is just as screwed up as he is- and together they're god damn invincible. 

"Stop that," Bruce says, not bothering to look up from the paper in his hand. "Everything's fine, and your brain is interfering with my concentration." Clint grins. Absolutely fucking perfect. 

\---

Clint jerks awake to the sound of the bedroom door opening. He's always been a light sleeper and has gotten even worse since Naomi showed up. One hand goes to Bruce's shoulder, ready to wake him up, and then he sees the tiny little silhouette in the doorway. He lets out a slow breath and forces himself to relax. Either it's Naomi or a very small serial killer.

"Nomi, baby, what's up?" Clint yawns, rubbing at his eyes. Naomi creeps towards the bed, thumb lodged firmly in her mouth and doll in her free hand. There's wet spots on her cheeks, visible in the dark. Clint's heart breaks a little. 

"Monsters," she whispers. Clint sighs and elbows Bruce in the back. He's not going in alone. Bruce grumbles, one foot jerking to kick Clint in the shin. Clint elbows him again. If anyone ever did break in, they'd be totally screwed. Bruce sleeps like the dead and is kind of a dick until he's had at least two cups of coffee. 

"Come here, monkey," Clint says, lifting her up onto the bed with them. Naomi is moving as soon as he sets her down, crawling over Bruce- getting a few soft spots in the process if the sounds he makes are anything to go by- and forcing her way into his arms. 

"What's wrong, Naomi?" Bruce asks softly, still half asleep. He strokes her back through her princess nightgown, one eye cracked open. 

"They're coming to take me away," Naomi says, her little voice cracking. Clint rolls onto his side, spooning up behind Bruce and wrapping his arm around both of them. Naomi's shaking under their hands, right on the edge of a hysterical fit.

"No one's ever going to take you away from us," Bruce says. He pulls her in tight, crushing her tiny, frail body to his, and looks over his shoulder at Clint. He looks as lost as Clint feels. Naomi doesn't really do nightmares, not usually. It's absolutely shattering to see her like this.

"They're coming," Naomi whispers. Clint curls his fingers in her hair and tries to force her to feel them all around her. 

"We'd never let you go," Clint says. "I swear."

Bruce rocks her, whispering something Clint can't quite hear. They stay like that for a long time, a knot of limbs and anxiety, until Naomi's hitching breaths settle down. The thread of fear inside Clint fades away slowly. They're all safe and accounted for. Naomi picked up on Clint's anxiety from camp and had a bad dream. Everything's _fine_.

"I resent that our kid likes you better than me," Clint says. 

"I don't make her take naps or try to feed her avocado," Bruce whispers. His arm moves under Clint's as he strokes Naomi's hair. "If it makes you feel better, you're still my favorite." It does make him feel better, even if he's not going to say it out loud. 

"Liar," Clint says. "Have I ever told you that watching you be super parent gets me hot?" 

He kisses the soft spot under Bruce's ear and settles down to sleep. They're okay. 

\---

Bruce's mouth trails a hot, damp line down his chest, teeth sinking into his skin every few inches. The sheets are cool against Clint's back, Bruce a brand against his front. Clint tangles his fingers up in Bruce's curls and drags him up for a kiss. 

Bruce laughs against his mouth, tongue curling against his teeth, and backs away way too soon. His hand slides slowly down Clint's side, fingertips pressing into the dips between his ribs, the crest of his hip. He stops when he gets to the top of Clint's thigh, rubbing the damp skin with the edge of his thumb soothingly. There's a scar there, somethIng even Clint doesn't remember getting, that Bruce always gets stuck on. Clint's both endlessly endeared and endless annoyed. 

They'd dropped Naomi off for her very first sleepover an hour ago. Clint misses her, yes, but he's also missed being able to fuck whenever he wants. He'll feel guilty about it in the morning. He's got better things to think about right now. 

"My dick is so lonely," Clint whines, twisting his hips until the head of his cock bumps against Bruce's wrist. "Bruce, it's so _sad_." Bruce laughs, turning his hand to give him a slow, loose stroke. Clint groans and digs his head back into the pillows. 

"One day, you'll stop talking about your dick like it's a person," Bruce says, rubbing idly at the head of Clint's cock. It jerks in his hand, begging. 

"And you will be the saddest person on Earth," Clint says, breaking off on a gasp when Bruce twists his wrist. They've been together for- for a long time. Bruce knows his buttons better than Clint does. "You will be so sad, you love us both and you would miss hearing about his-"

Bruce licks a long line across Clint's balls and Clint abruptly forgets everything. 

He watches the pink slip of Bruce's tongue slide from one side to the other, watches Bruce's wide mouth suck one in before letting it go. Bruce scoots down the bed, spreading Clint's thighs with his shoulders. Clint's cock jerks against his stomach in anticipation. He knows what's coming but he still lets out an embarrassing whine at the first brush of Bruce's tongue against his ass. 

"Jesus," Clint whimpers, twisting his hand in Bruce's hair. 

Bruce is the picture of patience. He's done this for hours, taking Clint apart with his tongue and his fingers and his cock. He's got a fondness for eating Clint out that Clint doesn't quite understand but absolutely _loves_. 

Bruce spreads him open with one hand, tongue circling Clint's hole slowly, never quite dipping inside. He scrapes his teeth against one ass cheek, biting gently. Clint tries to push down against him, overeager to get Bruce in him, but Bruce holds him down with one strong forearm. 

"Bruce," Clint whines, gasping when Bruce finally pushes his tongue inside. Bruce hums, the vibrations shivering straight up to Clint's cock. "Fuck me, come on, it's been- oh, sweet fuck do that again- it's been _forever_." Bruce slides a finger in next to his tongue, pulling him open to get deeper, and Clint's dick drools against his abs. " _Bruce_."

"All the more reason to take my time," Bruce says, brushing a kiss over Clint's thigh. He adds another finger, splitting them apart, and leans down to lick between them. Clint squirms, straining against Bruce's arm. When Bruce eventually pulls back, his lips and chin are spit shiny and swollen. 

"Take your time later," Clint says, yanking roughly at Bruce's hair. He loves how it feels in his hands, loves how it gets tangled and dark with sweat when Bruce is balls deep in him, hates how it gets into his mouth in the middle of the night. Bruce twists his wrist cruelly and Clint moans. "Seriously. I'm going to pop before we get anywhere."

Bruce lets Clint pull him up, fucking him slowly with his fingers, thumb pressed firmly behind Clint's balls. He's steadfastly ignoring Clint's prostate because he's a _jerk_. His wedding band keeps rubbing against the rim of Clint's hole, which is weirdly hot. 

"I'd still fuck you," Bruce says, biting a gentle mark into Clint's collarbone. Clint pinches a nipple with his free hand, the dark patch of hair on Bruce's chest soft against the backs of his knuckles. Bruce bites his neck, a sharp flare of pain that makes Clint shiver. "I'd go in so easy, fuck you slow, wait for you to get hard again." 

Bruce could do it, too. Clint's never met anyone with anything near the same kind of control of their body like Bruce has. It's tempting. They've got all night. Clint would be sore in the morning, unable to get rid of the feel of Bruce's cock in him. But he's got camp and there's no way he's going to sport a boner around the pre-teens. 

"I am not begging," Clint says. He reaches down, wrapping his hand around Bruce's thick cock. Bruce twists his fingers and Clint swears. "Dirty cheater."

"I learned from the best," Bruce says, kissing the hinge of Clint's jaw. He hasn't shaved, his two day stubble more beard than Clint gets in a week, and it scratches fantastically. His breath hitches a little when Clint jacks him, but it's the only sign he gives. It takes a lot to get him to the breathless, restless point Clint's at but, man, is it worth the effort. 

"I want his name," Clint gasps, fitting his dick in his hand next to Bruce's. Both of them are damp at the head, slicking the way. "He's an asshole." Bruce hums, tracing the tip of his nose over the shell of Clint's ear. 

"He really is." Bruce thrusts his fingers in hard and Clint arches off the bed. Bruce's shaft rubs against Clint's balls, hard and hot and solid, sweet sparks of pleasure riding up Clint's spine. 

"Fuck me. Come on. Don't make me overpower you. I'll do it. I totally will." Clint's lying. Bruce is surprisingly strong for his size. The only way Clint's going to overpower him is if he lets it happen. 

"Try it," Bruce says against Clint's throat. Clint wants him to bite down again, wants to wear Bruce's marks all over him. He can't- the camp would have his head- but it doesn't make him want it any less. 

Clint shoves up with his hips and rolls them over, Bruce's fingers sliding out of him. He feels their loss immediately, his hole open and eager. Bruce reaches for the lube in the nightstand, handing it over. The bottle is depressingly full. 

Clint squeezes it out straight onto Bruce's cock, laughing gleefully at Bruce's wince. It's air conditioning cold and only warms up when he spreads it with his palm. Bruce holds his hips when Clint raises up, helping to steady him. 

It's always awkward to get the angle just right this way, the fat head of Bruce's cock slipping across Clint's hole a few time before it catches. Clint throws his head back as he sinks down, groaning. He's not going to last much longer for this round. It really has been too long. 

He rides Bruce hard and fast, the headboard bouncing off the wall as the bed shakes under them. His thighs ache, spread wide over Bruce's hips, and sweat stings his eyes, but he's on a mission. 

"You're so hot," Bruce murmurs, his fingertips skating the rim of Clint's hole. He teases the tip of one in when Clint's on a downstroke. It's too much and not enough. Clint fists his cock, jerking himself off quick and dirty. 

He comes over Bruce's chest, matting his chest hair, his thighs trembling and his balls aching as they're finally emptied. Bruce grabs his hips and flips them over, Clint's head bouncing off the mattress, and pounds into him. 

Clint likes this best of all: Bruce completely out of control, rutting against him like an animal. Clint tucks his hands under his knees, holding himself open as best he can. He's oversensitive, squirming as Bruce drives into him, moaning like he's in a porno. Bruce is quiet except for the occasional grunt his mouth open and his eyes hooded. He's fucking gorgeous. 

Bruce stills, buried balls deep, and swears. Clint can feel him thickening, can feel him coming, and arousal swirls lazily in his belly. Oh, yeah. There's totally going to be a round two in an hour or so. He's got a plan. A _sexy_ plan. 

Bruce pulls out slowly, apologizing when Clint grimaces. He collapses onto the bed, resting his head against Clint's shoulder. His hair goes straight into Clint's mouth, just like it always does, and Clint's heart swells. Of all the stupid, stupid things to turn him into a teenage girl. 

"I love you," Clint says softly. He drags his fingers up the damp curve of Bruce's spine, pressing between the ridges. There's a tiny patch of hair at the small of Bruce's back, bizarre and as dark as the hair on his head, and Clint scratches his nails through it. He knows all of Bruce's strange parts, knows all of his good parts and his bad ones, and he loves _every single thing_.

They don't say it often. The words don't come easily to either one of them, which is sad in ways Clint doesn't want to think about. But he knows without having to hearing it. He knows that it's all about the way Bruce looks at him first thing in the morning and the way Bruce listens to him crank about the camp when he could be doing something else and the way Bruce makes sure to kiss him every night before bed, just in case. 

Neither one of them might be any good at words, but they've got body language down to an art.

"I know," Bruce says, voice muffled by Clint's chest. Clint blinks and pokes him in the shoulder.

"You just Star Wars'd me," Clint says. "In _bed_." He can feel Bruce's wide grin against his skin, and they spend too much time laughing than is probably warranted. Clint feels like he's going to explode inside out.

Clint dreams about a man in green with bright blue eyes. He doesn't remember anything else about it in the morning, but he's left feeling unsettled for the rest of the day. Those icy eyes don't leave his mind.

\---

Clint brings Naomi to the camp with him on Saturday, taking great joy in Bruce's look of relief. He'll have all day to catch up on work that's been lagging behind and if he succeeds, there's a trip to Pizza Hut in their very near future. Naomi always wrecks the tables, but Clint is an exceptional tipper and no one can really resist Bruce's contrite face. 

"Alright, Nomi, what are the rules?" Clint asks as he parks the truck. 

"Sit very still behind the line and don't make loud noises when anyone has an arrow in their hand," Naomi says very seriously. Clint's been drilling her all day about it. Normally they're using blunt, rubber tipped arrows when he brings her along, but Brianna's using the real deal today. Clint's freaking out a little about Naomi running in front of a target, even though he knows she won't. Parenting makes him nervous. 

"Good," he says, unclipping her seatbelt and helping her down out of the seat. She's still too short to get in on her own, but he figures she's got a year more and then she'll be half as tall as he is. She's already sprouting up like a weed. She's totally going to be taller than Bruce when she's a teenager. Clint can't wait. 

Brianna's already in the pitch when they get there, stringing her bow. She didn't wear the sparkly dress, but she's in a bright pink leotard and neon yellow legwarmers. Naomi's already got stars in her eyes. She runs ahead of him, stopping a scant few inches in front of Brianna. She waits patiently until the bow is out of the way and then launches herself into Brianna's arms.

"Hey, Naomi," Brianna says, hugging her close. "I like your braids." She tugs lightly on the loose, ropey braids on either side of Naomi's head and Naomi beams at her, showing off the gap in her front teeth.

"Baba did them," she says proudly. Bruce is in charge of hair detail. Clint's threatened to give her a buzz cut after a few failed experiments with braiding. He's always had short, straight hair. He figures Bruce has to know more than he ever will. It's worked out well so far. 

"Dad's not too good at the beauty stuff, huh?" Brianna asks, giving Clint a sly look over Naomi's shoulder. Clint sticks his tongue out at her and feels way younger than his forty-four years. Whatever. He spends most of his time with some sort of kids anyway. He's just getting down to their level. "You gonna watch?"

"Daddy says I have to sit very still when you're shooting," Naomi says. She pulls her monster doll out of her backpack and shows it to Brianna, who makes all of the appropriate noises of interest. When Jackie heads off to college, Clint's totally going to make Brianna babysit. She's a natural. "Hogan's going to keep me company."

"Alright, Nomi, take a seat," Clint says, tapping a spot of grass behind the white chalk shooting line. She sits gamely, placing the doll firmly in her lap and her chin in her hands. Clint gives it twenty minutes before she's bored out of her mind. She's never really been into archery, which bums Clint out on a daily basis. Ah, well. Brianna will have to be his protege. 

"Hogan?" Brianna asks when Clint extends a hand to help her up. Her leg warmers really are awful. He shrugs.

"She chose it," he says, picking up her bow and quiver. Brianna straps on her arm guards and gives him a thumbs up. The shafts of the arrows are all painted the same color as her legwarmers. Clint thinks the act would be way more awesome if she did it in her formal stuff, but Brianna won't even pretend to take his advice. "Okay, so you're really set on this gymnastics thing? No fire?"

"Yes. Stop with the fire. There will be no fire." Briana sets up some weird, u-shaped gymnasticsy thing in the grass, tests its stability, and shakes herself out. "I've got the contortion shot down pretty well, but the second part is really weird to get the hang of."

She wants to do a handstand and shoot with her feet. It's terrible for strength of shot and worse for accuracy, but Clint's been practicing at home, very carefully hidden away from Bruce. He can't handle the teasing. Bruce has a way of laughing at him without actually laughing that drives Clint nuts. 

"Alright, so, you want to put way more of an arc to it than normal," he says, arms out to catch Brianna as she settles her hands on the balance beam thing and hauls up into a handstand. Her biceps are pretty well developed for a teenager, and Clint likes to think he's helped. He immediately tucks that thought away because it's creepy.

He holds her bow out and tries not to be weirded out as her toes close around the riser. He's done it a dozen times himself, but it doesn't make it any more normal. He guides her into position, one arm bracing her stomach and the other on her ankle. The toes of her other foot close around the bowstring and she does a spectacularly graceful split to pull it taught. Clint imagines he mostly looks like a drunken baboon when he's doing it.

"Okay, remember, use the weight of the arrow in your favor. You're not going to land a straight shot, so don't even try." Clint looks over his shoulder to check that Naomi's safely out of the way. She's still behind the line but sprawled flat on her stomach, doll resting on the back of her neck. "Alright. Let 'er rip."

The arrow flies way off course, but that's only to be expected. Clint nocks another one, adjusts Brianna's leg again, and watches the next arrow sail over the target. It's going to be a long day. After a few more failed attempts, Brianna dismounts and settles next to Naomi. She doesn't rub at her arms because she's bullheaded, but Clint knows how hard it is to hold a handstand for that long. 

"Are you sure it can be done?" Brianna asks. She looks put out but as determined as ever. Clint glances between her and Naomi and bends to take his shoes off. He grabs his bow, nocks an arrow, and points his free hand at Naomi.

"We do not tell Baba, because Baba will laugh at me, " he says. Naomi gives him a toothy grin. He's going to be so busted when they get home. 

Clint holds the bow in the crook of his arm, does a messy, ungainly handstand, and gets the riser lodged between his toes. He never wants to think about feet again after this. It takes him longer than usual to figure out the angle of his shot, and the string feels absolutely bizarre on such sensitive skin, but the arrow hits the target dead center when he lets it go. Brianna and Naomi clap and cheer.

Clint hooks his bow around his shin, dismounts mostly gracefully, and gives them a little bow. 

"You ever think of doing a travelling show?" Brianna asks as she pushes up from the grass. Clint pauses, hunched over, hands halfway to his bow. Goosebumps work up his spine as he remembers Steve asking the same thing. It's not an uncommon question, he tells himself, hopping on one foot to get free. Just weird timing, is all. 

"Nah," Clint says, dropping to the grass next to Naomi. He drags her up onto his lap and attacks her rounded little belly with his fingertips, drawing out peals of high pitched laughter. "Have to take care of the monkey." Naomi knees him in the stomach, her other knee way too close to his crotch for comfort, and that abruptly ends the tickle fight. "You on the other hand-"

Clint breaks off midstream, voice running away from him. Steve is standing by the boys' lodging, watching them carefully. A shiver works its way up Clint's spine. Naomi goes still in his arms, picking up on his tension. Brianna nudges him with a sharp elbow.

"Me what?" She asks. Clint shakes his head and looks away from Steve. The kid is such a _creep_.

"You and your freaky feet would make lots of people around the world weirdly happy," Clint says with a grin. It's incredibly inappropriate, the kid's barely a teenager, but Brianna just rolls her eyes and adjusts her leg warmers. "Come on. Break's done. From the top."

They practice for an hour, which is longer than Clint has ever seen Naomi stay firmly in place. Steve watches them for a long time, never moving closer, never saying anything. When he leaves, Clint feels like something's been lifted from him. 

Naomi sleeps in bed with them again that night, and Clint dreams about falling off a tight rope. He jerks awake before he hits the ground, but his aching leg keeps him up for the rest of the night.

\---

"Take a nap," Bruce says, stealing Clint's trashy romance novel straight from his hands. "In bed, preferably."

"You going to join me?" Clint asks, giving Bruce his best come hither face. It's made less sexy by the massive yawn that follows. Bruce smiles and shakes his head. 

"I think you'd fall asleep on me and my ego can't handle that," he says. He's not wrong, as much as Clint hates to admit it. "Go on. I've got Naomi, and if you keep sleeping on the couch, your neck will never forgive you."

"But I'm so comfortable." Clint grabs Bruce's wrist and tugs until Bruce settles in next to him. He lays his head on Bruce's thigh, breathing in the warm familiar smell of laundry detergent and ink. "Better. Continue on."

"You need to get some sleep," Bruce says, even as he relaxes into the cushions. He drags gentle fingertips along Clint's forehead, down along the crest of his nose. Clint goes cross-eyed for a moment, everything narrowed down to the whorls of fingerprint. "If you shoot one of the kids tomorrow, I'm not bailing you out."

"Liar," Clint says. He pets the soft fold of Bruce's stomach under his polo, pressing his fingers in until Bruce thumps him. He's tired, eyes heavy and sore, but he doesn't want to sleep. He feels like Naomi a little, fighting off the demons with willpower alone. She seems to be better at it than he is. "You'd be so sad without me and my-"

"Little ears," Bruce chides. Clint grins at him again. "You've been pulling a lot of late nights." The grin fades away. Clint shrugs and rubs his cheek against the washer worn denim of Bruce's jeans. Bruce thumps him again because Bruce is an awful person. "Spill."

"Naomi's nightmares have rubbed off on me," Clint says softly. He closes his eyes, blocking out the familiar creases of worry. "I don't remember a lot, but." He shrugs again. 

"I do," Bruce says. Clint looks up at him, startled. "I'm always- angry." He laughs a little, a hollow sound that makes Clint feel uneasy. "Other people have nightmares about people chasing them, but I'm always doing the chasing. I can't stop it."

"Aren't we all a matched set." Clint threads his fingers through Bruce's and kisses his knuckles. It feels more concrete, more real, that something's gone sideways knowing that Bruce is in on the bad dreams game. "It's got to blow over soon, right?"

"We can hope," Bruce says. He sounds as hopeful as Clint feels. On the other side of the room, Naomi topples over a Lego castle and roars a menacing six-year-old roar. Bruce gives him a rueful smile. "Sleep. We've got a little monster to protect us."

\---

The kids can tell he's off his game. They're louder than normal, harder to gather up into one place. Clint bites his tongue to keep from shouting. He hasn't felt this out of control since Naomi showed up. Brianna, small goddess of mercy, takes over the majority of class.

Clint avoids Steve, watching him practice from a distance. He's not any good, not really, but he does have determination. He keeps glancing up at Clint after his shots, wide mouth twisted down into a frown. When the kids do that, it's usually to get his approval or get pointers, but with Steve it's like he's putting together a battle plan. Clint wants to wring his pencil neck so bad that it makes his hands itch. 

"Boss," Brianna says at the end of class, standing close so the shouting pre-teens can't hear. "You have got to remove that stick up your ass."

"Language," Clint says on autopilot. Brianna raises an eyebrow and Clint shrugs. Naomi's starting to pick up on his foul mouth and Bruce is completely unimpressed. "Sorry. I haven't been sleeping well."

"I can see that," Brianna says dryly. She pokes him under his left eye, right where he knows he's got a truly great set of baggage, and shakes her head. "What's eating you?"

"Nothing to worry about, kid." Clint pushes her forehead with two fingers and tries out a smile for size. It feels almost right. "Don't you have another class to get to?" Brianna rolls her eyes but takes the hint. Clint grabs his bow from his case and picks up an arrow. Shooting always makes him feel better, and he's got nowhere to be for a while. 

The motion of pull, release, pull, release is easy to fall into. He shoots until his arms begin to ache, mind blissfully blank for the first time in days. He grabs the arrows from the target, takes his spot behind the line again, and empties out his quiver again. He's going to be sore in the morning, but he's looking forward to the pain. It's something simple to focus on. 

"I like going to the gym to calm down."

Clint doesn't miss- he _never_ misses- but the bowstring catches him on the way back, scraping off the tender skin of his forearm. He swears, whipping around. The pain flickers as he sets his bow down, as he takes three steps to close the distance between him and fucking Steve.

"What is your problem?" Clint grits out. Steve blinks up at him, not even flinching. Clint forces himself to unclench his fists. He's not going to hit this kid. He's _not_. "Why do you keep _staring at me_?"

"Why do I bother you so much, Clint?" Steve asks. His voice is wheezy and weak. No one should have let him go to a fucking summer camp. He's going to infect everyone. 

"That's Mr. Barton," Clint snaps. Steve sets his jaw and lifts his chin. He barely reaches Clint's chest, but he's standing at parade rest like it's the most natural thing in the world. "I repeat: what's your problem?"

"You really don't remember, do you? Hawkeye? Hulk? Anything?" Steve asks. He scans Clint's face, eyebrows drawn together. Clint fights back a shudder. He feels like he's being stripped down to the skeleton and it's pissing him off. Something pings in the back of his mind, but he stamps down on it. Now is not the time.

"Look, kid, I don't know what kind of weird little fever dream you're having, but I don't know you, I don't want to know you, and I want you out of my class." Clint turns away from him, shoving his bow still strung into its case and zipping it up. He swings it over his shoulder and pushes past Steve, eyes firmly on his truck. 

"Say hi to Bruce for me," Steve calls. Clint freezes. When he turns around, Steve is gone.

\---

"Pack a bag for Naomi." Clint rushes past Bruce, into their bedroom. The bed's still unmade, Naomi's socks and Bruce's boxers on the floor, everything as normal as possible. Clint's hands are shaking, have been shaking the whole drive home. Bruce leans against the doorway, watching as Clint pulls down the gun box from the top shelf.

"What's going on?" He asks. He closes the door, turning the lock. Bruce hadn't wanted the gun, had insisted that between him and Clint things would be fine, but Clint liked the security of it. Just knowing he could get to it if he had to was a comfort. He's infinitely glad he won that battle.

"I'll tell you everything when we get to the hotel," Clint says, loading the clip and checking the safety. The gun is heavy in his hand, secure. He tucks it into the back of his jeans and reaches for their dusty rolling suitcase. "But we need to get out, and we need to do it now."

Bruce watches him for a second before nodding. He unlocks the door and closes it behind him. Clint throws a few changes of clothing into the suitcase, grabs their phone chargers and looks around the room. It's the ice breaker question in real life: if your house was on fire, what three things would you take with you?

Naomi, Bruce, and himself. That's all that's important. 

When he gets back to the front room, Bruce is helping Naomi slide her princess backpack on. She looks confused, her lip a little wobbly. She won't let go of her doll, even when Bruce tries to pry it away from her. Clint takes a glance around the living room, sticks Bruce's laptop into the front pouch of the suitcase and grabs Bruce's keys from the bowl on the kitchen counter. 

"We're going on a little vacation," Bruce says when Naomi gets fussy. He's kneeling in front of her, one hand cupped around her cheek. "You, me, and Daddy."

"And Hogan?" Naomi asks. Her voice is wobbly but her head is held high. 

"And Hogan," Bruce says with a gentle smile. He stands and lifts Naomi onto his hip. She's too big to be carried, but Bruce catches Clint's panicked look and understands. Clint locks up while Bruce straps Naomi into the back of the Fiat. 

Clint drives for an hour and a half, glancing in the rearview mirror at Naomi every few minutes. She falls asleep quickly, doll clenched tight to her chest. Bruce looks over at him but Clint shakes his head. He's not ready to talk yet, not until they're safe behind locked doors. He doesn't know what they're going to do after they get to a hotel, but that's what Bruce is for. Clint's the short game. Bruce is the long one.

They pull into the lot of a Motel 6 and Clint checks them into a two bed room. Bruce carries Naomi up, keycard in his free hand, and Clint grabs their bags. The weight of the gun at the small of his back grounds him. They're safe. They're fine. 

Bruce tucks Naomi into one of the beds, soothing her hair back when she squirms. It's barely five in the afternoon but Clint hopes she sleeps through. Bruce jerks his head to the bathroom and Clint obediently follows him in.

"Talk," Bruce says. He crosses his arms over his chest, glasses crooked and eyes dark. 

Clint tells him about Steve, about the creeping sensation of fear following him for the past month. He tells him about Steve knowing more than he should, about how he'd watched Naomi. Bruce's frown deepens the longer Clint talks, but he doesn't interrupt. 

"He's just a kid," Bruce says gently, reaching out to pull Clint against him. Clint presses his face against Bruce's chest and shakes his head. He can't explain it properly. The words stick in his throat, all wrong. Bruce strokes his back, fingers reversing their course before they reach the gun. 

"He's not. Bruce, there's something wrong with him, and he's going to do something. I can't-" Clint lifts his head, trying to make Bruce see everything he can't find the words for. "I can't let something happen to you or Naomi. Not if I can stop it."

"We can stay a few days." Bruce kisses his forehead and takes a step back. "But we can't do this forever."

"I know," Clint says. He scrubs his hands over his face and shrugs. "If nothing happens, call it paranoia." There's something familiar about the urgency of the situation, about the danger. Instinct is screaming at him to check the windows, check the perimeter, get to high ground, and he has no idea why. It's as bothersome as everything else. 

"Nothing's going to happen," Bruce says. Clint wishes he could feel as sure as Bruce is. 

\---

Clint doesn't sleep. He sits in the window sill, gun in front of him, and alternates between watching the parking lot and Bruce and Naomi curled up together on one of the beds. He's scared. He can admit that, will admit it gladly. He's fucking terrified and helpless and has no idea what to do. 

Naomi makes a soft sound in her sleep and Clint glances away from the window. There's a figure in front of the still closed door. Clint picks up the gun and pulls the safety, aiming it. The shape of the shadow is all wrong, massive at the shoulders and too tall, but Clint knows who it is. 

"Put down the gun," Steve's voice says. He steps into the patch of moonlight and goes back to being nothing more than a skinny, sick kid with big, knowing eyes. He's four feet from the bed where Bruce and Naomi are still sleeping. Clint aims, his hand steady even as his heart pumps in his chest. He hasn't been to a gun range in- he doesn't know how long, but he knows that if he fired now the shot would land true.

"How did you get in?" Clint asks, ashamed of how tight his voice is. Steve takes another step forward and Clint cocks the hammer. 

"If you shoot, you might hit one of them," Steve says. He holds his broad hands up, nodding to the bed. A thick, black band is wrapped around his right wrist. It almost looks like an arm brace, but there's the green blue glow of a screen lighting up Steve's brace. 

"I don't miss," Clint says. But now that the idea's there, all he can think about is the sound of the shot waking Bruce and Naomi, of one of them sitting up in the fraction of time the bullet would take to move across the room. The odds of it are almost non-existent, almost impossible, _but they still exist_. "What do you want? Why are you _here_?"

"I was sent here to bring you and Doctor Banner home," Steve says. He nods to the gun, but Clint keeps it trained on him. He's not going to back down. 

"We _were_ home," Clint says. On the bed, Naomi snuggles deeper into Bruce's arms. This, Clint thinks, is what terror feels like. Steve shakes his head. 

"You were sent on a mission a week ago. Something went wrong in the bunker, and you and Doctor Banner were trapped inside the experiment." There's something in Steve's hands, small and round like a frisbee. He's cradling it in front of his chest, shielding his vital organs. There's nothing for him to do if Clint goes for a head shot. 

"Listen, you fucking psycho, I don't _do_ missions," Clint hisses. "I'm a fucking camp counselor. I teach snot nosed kids archery. Bruce is a fucking _professor_. Whatever you think about us, you're _wrong_."

Naomi makes another small sound, and then a gasp, and Clint makes the mistake of looking towards her. The thing in Steve's hand flies towards him, smacking into his hand, sending pain shooting up through his arm. The gun clatters to the floor near the bathroom, away from where Naomi and Bruce are.

"Clint?" Bruce sits up, one hand rubbing at the pillow creased side of his face. He goes stiff when he sees Steve, immediately grabbing Naomi and pushing her behind him. "Who are you?" 

"The machinery is slowly killing you," Steve says, eyes still locked firmly on Clint. "Everything around you is computer generated. Nothing is real." He glances at Naomi, balled up in distress under the covers, and looks away. Clint's heart pounds against his ribcage. "This is its way of pacifying you so you don't struggle. I'm so sorry, I am, but we need you to remember so we can get you back."

"Whatever you're on," Bruce says gently, carefully swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress, making himself a barrier, "we can get you help. You're in Clint's class, right?" Steve shakes his head again. 

"Have you noticed that whenever you want something it happens?" Steve asks. Bruce reaches behind him and gently pushes Naomi towards Clint. She runs to him, crashing into his legs. Her doll falls to the floor and is gone. "No time in between, no transition. Why haven't either one of you gotten older, even though Naomi has?"

"We're plenty old enough," Bruce says. He stands, edging towards Steve. Clint sees the edge of his uneasy smile and feels sick. If anyone's going to get hurt, it should be him. Not Bruce. Not Naomi. "Why don't we go outside, get some air. It's a bit late for you to be out on your own."

"Why is it always summer?" Steve asks, taking a step forward. He's nearly chest to chest with Bruce, so small and so frightening. "What do you do for work when the camp was closed? How did you spend last Christmas?"

"That's none of your business," Clint snaps. He wants Bruce by his side, wants to be able to pull him away if anything happens, and then Bruce is _there_. A blink of the eye, a split second, and Bruce is standing beside him. Steve's eyes widen and Clint's hands shake. Beside him, Bruce's mouth is hanging open, his hand already searching for Naomi's. "What did you do?"

"You wanted it badly enough, so it happened." Steve crosses the room slowly, hands still up even though Clint's unarmed. He's full of shit. If Clint could have what he wanted when he wanted, he wouldn't be here. He'd be at home, safe and fucking Steve would be dead.

"How did you get Naomi?" Steve asks gently. He reaches for them, but Bruce snarls at him, feral and terrifying in a way Clint's never seen. "Who's her mother? What's her birthday?" Clint's stomach sinks. 

She's six years old. He knows that. But he can't remember her birthday. He can't remember buying her Christmas gifts or throwing parties for her. He can't remember being in the hospital when she was born. He doesn't remember her being born at all. 

"No," Clint whispers, wrapping his arms around Naomi's small body. She's shaking against him, sobbing into his chest. "Shut _up_." Bruce kneels next to them, face pressed to Naomi's dark hair, shushing her gently. 

"Baba," Naomi wails. "Daddy." Her hot tears soak Clint's collar. Clint's heart aches. 

"Can you remember any details at all?" Steve asks. He looks concerned. The little fucker has the balls to look _concerned_ for them. "When did you get married? How did you meet?"

"We-" Clint cuts off, the words lost. Bruce and he have been together for what feels like forever. He doesn't remember first dates or either one of them proposing. He doesn't remember seeing Bruce across a room and knowing. It had always just been them. Them and Naomi, their little family unit made whole.

"You know I'm right," Steve says. "Doctor Banner-"

"Leave us alone," Bruce says, voice low and dark and dangerous. Naomi flinches away from him. Clint holds her with one arm, his free hand plunging into Bruce's hair. This is his family. This is _his_. Nothing else matters. The second time Bruce yells, it's nothing less than a roar. 

Everything around him goes hazy. Clint can't make out the lines of him anymore. The pressure of Bruce's body against his disappears and then Bruce is gone. Vanished. Naomi wails again. 

"Bring him back," Clint shouts. He wishes for Bruce, wants him more than anything in the fucking world, but he's _gone_.

"I'm so sorry," Steve says. He presses a button on his watch and the wall behind him flickers before going transparent.

The room behind it is completely trashed, metal and concrete everywhere. A man in a suit of armor kneels beside a bed enclosed in steel, furiously connecting wires. Sparks fly around him, but he doesn't even seem to notice. 

Clint's inside the pod. He can see himself, slack mouthed and rolled to the side, held down by straps. Naomi flickers in his arms like a bad projection, there and then gone and then there again. Clint feels sick, bile climbing up his throat. 

"I'm sorry," Steve says again. 

He lunges forward, grabbing Clint's wrist and yanking him back, too strong for his pathetically small body. Clint holds onto Naomi for as long as he can, but she slides through his fingers, nothing more than a ghost. He hits the transparent wall, wrestling with Steve, throwing anger blind punches. Pain bursts up his knuckles and then across his whole body, everything blacking out.

Clint jerks awake still shouting for Bruce and Naomi, thrashing against the metal band around his waist that's holding him down. He can't see anything but a thin red haze of anger. His throat hurts from yelling, but he can't stop. 

"Bring them _back_ ," he yells. A hand touches his, trying to soothe him, but it's not the right size, not the right people. He feels weak, dizzy and sick to his stomach. When he tries to shove the hand away, it's almost impossible to move his arm. 

"Clint," a woman's voice says getly. A face swims into his vision, pale and somehow familiar. Her vibrantly red hair hangs between them like a curtain, an illusion of privacy that Clint doesn't want. "Clint, stop, you're going to hurt yourself. We're getting you out, but you need to calm down."

"Do we need to tranquilize him?" _Steve_. Clint knows that voice. It's that fucking kid, that fucking little beast that ruined everything. Clint puts everything he has into launching himself across the room, but the metal bar stops him with a painful jolt.

"I think so," the woman says. She brushes her hand over Clint's hair, wincing when he snarls at her. "Status on the Hulk?"

"Iron Man is chasing him down now," Steve says. The man with his voice looks nothing like the kid from camp, too big and broad, a mask covering everything except his mouth. He's got a needle in one hand, his lips pressed together as he approaches. "I'm sorry, Clint. I really am."

"Get the fuck away from me." Clint turns to the side to vomit, but nothing comes out. His stomach and chest clench painfully, his throat aching as bile rises up. There's the prick of the needle in his neck. Pain shoots up to the base of his skull as he twists his head, the needle sliding out and jabbing him again in the jaw.

"Widow, hold him down," Steve says. The woman holds his shoulders down with strong hands, her face a blurry flash of concern. 

"Fuck you," Clint slurs. Steve glances away from him. Clint takes one last look around the room, at the ruined pods and the trashed computers and the gaping hole in the wall, and passes out.

\---

Clint feels like he's been hit by a truck. His mouth is dry and his eyes gummy when he tries to open them. He can hear the steady beep of a heart monitor. There's a sore patch at the side of his neck and jaw where he'd been jabbed. 

Everything comes to him in slow waves. There had been a report about a few bunkers in California doing weird testing. The team had split up to investigate. Tony and Steve had gone into the bunker with the giant bugs because they'd lost the game of rock paper scissors. Natasha had gone alone into the one with the reported cloning pod. He and Bruce hadn't known what experiment they were going to find. 

That's why they'd been put together. Clint was no Natasha, no Steve. If he stumbled across trouble, Hulk would be there to back him up. If there was nothing, Bruce was there to collect samples and bring them back to the tower. It should have been an easy mission. In, scour the computers, out and home for dinner.

Clint remembers there being weird little robots with brains in them, remembers being shuffled into the pod and lights flashing and then-

And then he'd woke up to his baby crying in her crib, Bruce standing over the cradle and fussing at her. Bruce's hair had been epically riotous and Naomi had been trying to reach it, her tiny face screwed up and her rosebud mouth open as wide as it could go. Bruce picked her up and sang to her, a little off key and not really baby appropriate, and given Clint a searching, pleading look.

Naomi had slept tucked between them that night. She'd been so pink and new, with Clint's nose and Bruce's eyes, and Clint's wedding ring had glowed against her skin, and he'd been exhausted but happy, and Bruce had kissed him and-

"How are you?" Natasha asks when Clint's eyes pop open, her thin fingers curled around Clint's. Her thumb passes over his knuckles, tender in a way people forget she can be. Clint's chest tightens. He'd forgotten Natasha. He'd forgotten his best friend in the world.

"I've had better days," Clint says. He tugs at his IV line until Natasha bats at his head. He hates medical and he hates cots and he hates being tied down. Natasha smooths back his hair and gives him a soft look. She knows, but she can't do anything about it. "What's the damage?"

"Dehydration, malnutrition, a few electrical burns that the doctors are worried about." Natasha looks at the steadily beeping heart monitor and frowns. "You were in the chamber for nearly a week. A few days more and you'd be gone."

"Cheery," Clint says. His legs ache- there are those burns, a few more scars to add to his collection- and his throat feels raw. Without being asked, Natasha hands him a cup of ice chips. They're like heaven. 

"Steve briefed us," Natasha says, not looking directly at him. Her hair is greasy, tied back into a messy ponytail. Clint wonders how long she's been sitting with him. He wonders who's sitting with Bruce. "I'm sorry."

Clint shrugs and pokes at the ice chips. He wishes he could just go back to sleep. He wishes that he didn't know. There's a pain under his sternum that hasn't left since he was pulled out. Naomi. Bruce. His life free from death and brainwashing and guilt. 

"How's Bruce?" He asks after a long moment. 

"He changed before he left the alternate reality," Natasha says. Clint remembers the green cast around Bruce's eyes as he was ripped away from them, remembers the pain and rage in his voice. "The Hulk's mass destroyed the chamber and that ejected him. That healed most of his damage, but he's being kept on surveillance. Tony's with him."

Clint nods and closes his eyes. Naomi's face is frozen behind his eyelids, a freeze-frame of a snotty nose and teary eyes. He lied to her. He couldn't protect her. He'd been a shitty parent to the very end. 

Natasha sits with him for a long while, her fingers wrapped casually around Clint's. She doesn't ask questions, doesn't want him to explain himself, and he loves her for that. When she finally leaves, Clint pulls out the IV and unhooks the monitors, swooping in to disable the alarms before they can go off, and drags himself to the attached bathroom.

It's damn hard to walk, but Clint's determined if he's anything. He pauses at the sink, bracing his hand on the cold metal, and risks checking himself out in the mirror. He looks like hell, all sunken in eye sockets and sallow skin, pounds lighter than the last time he checked. His greasy hair sticks up in the back in a ducktail. On the other side of the helicarrier, Bruce probably looks the same as he always does when he wakes up from Hulking out. Naomi's little green monster doll. Christ. 

He's not going to think about it.

Carefully, he reaches back to untie the knot of the hospital gown and shrugs it off. His pecs and biceps are definitely smaller than they've been in years. He's got a feeling he'll be spending a lot of time in the gym when he gets back to the tower. 

It takes him a moment to get the shower on, his fingers skidding weakly against the knob, but he manages to slip inside without collapsing. He's counting it as a win. For a moment, he just lets himself stand under the spray, letting the sound clear his head.

Clint scrubs under his arms with the SHIELD issued bar of soap. He's still tired, still a little sick to his stomach, but if he has to smell his own sweat any longer, he's going to throw something out the window. The water on the helicarrier never really gets hot, but it still feels good against his back. There's a red, swollen sore started on his left shoulder blade from resting too long in one position in the pod. 

He runs the soap over his crotch and pauses as he's rinsing the suds away. The scar on his thigh, the one Bruce loved so much, is pale and pink and as present as ever. He'd gotten it when he was first learning to shoot, back before Barney betrayed him and before Jacques tried to kill him. He'd been careless with an arrow, sliced his thigh and bawled, bleeding out onto the floor. Jacques had made a joke about stabbing something important that Clint hadn't quite understood and patched him up.

Clint leans against the shower wall and runs his fingers over the slippery patch of skin. If he thinks about it, he can still feel Bruce's lips there, can still feel his fingertips tracing it over and over again. It's the last straw. Clint sinks to the floor, the lukewarm water pooling around him, and sobs.

\---

Clint doesn't visit Bruce, and Bruce doesn't visit him.

\---

Clint spends his first week back at the tower eating protein heavy foods and lifting weights in the gym. He'll never be built quite like Super Steve, it's not in his genes, but he tried drawing his heaviest bow two days ago and couldn't get the string all the way back. It'll be a while until he's cleared for duty again- he fucking hates being on the bench, but he'll be stuck there longer if he tries to sneak out- and he plans to be back in tip top condition.

Steve's avoiding him. Every time he walks into the gym while Clint's there, he mumbles a quick apology and turns heel, fleeing like a startled cat. Clint's glad for it. He knows he should be thankful that Steve risked himself to save them. 

And he had. Steve had gone in with more knowledge than they'd had, Tony giving him a run down as they linked up the pods, but that hadn't meant anything. He could have ended up in his own perfect world. He could have gotten sucked into Clint's. A million things could have gone wrong, and he might have the super serum, but even Captain America needs food and water eventually.

Clint knows that. He _knows_. But knowing doesn't make his twisted up feelings go away. Every time he sees Steve, boiling hot anger breaks into his chest. It'll go away eventually. Clint's the king of compartmentalization. He's had to be. 

Natasha comes to see him every couple of days, sparring with him or eating take out on his couch. She adds terrible movies to his Netflix queue and steals his egg rolls, and it would be almost normal if it weren't for the terrible ache in his chest. 

On the first day of week three, Natasha hands him a quality German beer, smacks him across the back of his head, and stares him down. Shit. He'd been hoping to get away from the Natasha glower.

"Talk," she says. It's non-optional. If the spy thing doesn't work out, she can totally go into psychiatry. She'd be a lot better than the handful of shrinks he's seen on a mandatory basis. Clint drinks half his beer and nods. Alright. He can do this.

"If it could be anything at all, any reality to make us complacent, why did it…" Clint looks up at the ceiling, hating the familiar-unfamiliar stucco. In their house- the fake place he'd help renovate, the fake place he'd painted lavender one hot summer day, the place he'd raised his daughter- the ceilings had all been push tile. He misses it. "Why did it choose that?"

"Clint." Natasha sips her beer, watching him over the rim of the bottle. She looks as tired as he feels, and he wonders what it was like, not being able to get to them. He's a selfish asshole, wallowing in his self-pity. He knows that. "What thing do you most want in the world? What thing have you never really had? It doesn't take a psychologist to answer that question."

Clint picks at the label of his bottle. He's never considered himself lonely. His life before the circus was shit and his life at the end of the circus was shit, but he'd had Barney until he didn't. He'd had Jacques until he didn't. Then he found Natasha, as broken and weird as him, and then the Avengers enlisted him. There's always been people. 

But he's never- the way he felt for Bruce, for Naomi- he's never felt anything like that before. He'd been blissfully, stupidly happy. The past was gone, and all he had was his family and his kids and Brianna and people that could love him at least a little. His heart aches as he tries to call up the memory of Brianna's face. He'd been looking forward to seeing her pageant. He'd wanted to cheer loudest for the talent portion, wanted to brag about her to the pageant moms. 

He'll never know how she would have done. He'll never see her again. He'll never see _her_ again. 

"Clint," Natasha says softly. Clint jerks, fumbling to catch his beer before it crashes to the ground. His vision swims. "You can't keep doing that."

"Why Bruce?" Clint asks, because if he keeps thinking about Naomi he's going to do something rash and destructive, and he can't make Natasha watch that. "What did he get out of it?"

"You," Natasha says bluntly. She gathers up their bottles, bins them, and pulls out two more. The glass is cold against his palm, grounding him. "You never noticed how he used to look at you? You're a terrible spy."

"I'm just the muscle," Clint says automatically, filling in his part. He hadn't noticed anything. He and Bruce hung out every once in awhile, watching movies in the lounge or eating 2am breakfasts. Bruce is a good guy with sly humor and an infinitely caring nature and Clint's always liked him well enough.

To think that Bruce might have- before. It's weird. He can't get his head around the tangle of emotions from before and after, can't remember how he felt about Bruce without the influence of the bunker. Clint hasn't seen him since they were in the pods. He doesn't know what to do. 

"Go talk to him," Natasha says. She prods at his knee with her toes, forcing him to look at her. "You're not the only one who's hurting." She downs her beer, sets the bottle on the table, and gathers up her shoes from the closet. "And his best friend is Tony Stark. He's not getting beer and pep talks."

Clint stares into his beer until he hears the door click. Natasha's not wrong, but Clint's- Clint's scared shitless. He still loves Bruce, doesn't know if the feelings are real or a byproduct of machinery, doesn't know if he'll be able to look at Bruce without seeing Naomi.

She'd looked so much like him. Was that Clint's influence? Did he want his kid to be as little like him as possible, or did Bruce want to give some form of himself a second chance? A family where he could be loved and coddled and held after a nightmare? 

Clint throws the bottle into the kitchen, not taking any satisfaction from the sound of it shattering. He doesn't want to talk to Bruce. He doesn't want to talk to anyone. He wants to be back in that fucking pod, watching Brianna's pageant with Naomi on his lap and Bruce's hand in his. 

He'd thought about it. About trying to talk Bruce into salvaging some of the things they'd brought back to the tower. If anyone could fix the pods, it would be Tony, and the key to Tony has always been Bruce. Clint doesn't know which option is worse: never seeing Naomi again, or seeing her and knowing she was never real. 

He just wants it to all be over. He's sick of not being able to control his own mind.

"JARVIS," Clint says, staring firmly at the floor, "where's Bruce?"

"Dr. Banner is currently on the roof," JARVIS answers. Clint wonders what sort of advice JARVIS would give him if he asked. Not that he knew what to ask, anyway. _Hey, I lived inside a dream world for a few years, got married, had a kid, found out my dream world actually only lasted a few days, and I feel like I've lost everything. Got any tips?_

He's almost tempted to ask, just to stall, but he clamps his lips together and rides the elevator up in silence. He wishes Natasha were with him, solid and sure no matter what life throws at her. Clint wonders about what she was like as a kid, before the Red Room got to her. Maybe she'd always been that way, sharp and deadly but yet untrained. Probably not. People like Natasha and him were made, not born. 

Bruce is leaning against the railing at the far edge of the roof, dark purple shirt nearly blending into the sky. One hand hangs over the rail, the other moving to- He's smoking. In all the time they were married- Clint winces. In all the time he's known Bruce, he's never seen him with a cigarette. It's almost nice, seeing that he's not the only one so fucked up about everything that's happened. 

Bruce blows a thin stream of smoke out, head tilted back and hair curling around his ears. Clint's chest tightens as he thinks about pulling Legos and pens from that hair, laughing and free and happy. 

Clint watches him for a while, completely still in the doorway. Everything about him screams comfort and familiarity, and Clint wants to know when that's going to go away. He can't trust anyone here, and no one can really trust him. He's proven that with other people's lives. It would be stupid to pretend it can be any other way.

"Those things will kill you," Clint says, letting the door slide closed behind him. 

"They can try," Bruce says. He doesn't look back, but he holds out the pack. Clint thinks _fuck it_ and takes it from him. 

They smoke in silence, the nicotine making Clint lightheaded. He hasn't smoked since he was a teenager. It feels right, being this out of character. He doesn't have a goddamn clue who he is. Hasn't since before the Avengers even started. 

The air is cool and crisp, the start of winter creeping up on the city. Clint's always hated winter. It's too cold. Snow is a liability in his profession. Christmas means less than shit to him. Always has, probably always will. He wonders if Bruce felt that way, too. Christ, they're the same kind of fucked up. 

"I miss her," Clint says, breaking the silence. He leans against the rail, letting the filter drop from his fingers. He can't look at Bruce. Not yet. The part of him that's been living in a cryochamber wants his husband to hold him, to promise him things are going to be fine. The rest of him wants to run away into the city and never come back. "I know she wasn't real, but she felt so..."

"I miss her, too," Bruce says quietly. He looks gaunt. Before, Clint had taken to bringing him lunch when he'd been holed up in the lab. Clint's pretty sure Bruce is sleeping even less than he is. "We loved her. We'll always love her."

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" Clint asks after a moment. He feels Bruce shrug. 

"What good would it have done?" Bruce lights another cigarette, letting it burn between his fingers. "Even if you wanted something, I couldn't have given it to you." He waves his hand at the city, ash scattering across the ground. "The house, normal jobs, Na- kids. If anyone's going to figure out how to balance that with the Avengers, it's going to be you. I can't do that. So why bother?"

"You always were pessimistic," Clint says before he can stop himself. Bruce tenses. Stupid mistakes. Clint's full of them and now he's got more fuel for putting his foot in his mouth. "Sorry. It's going to take some time to get used to."

"Yeah," Bruce says, voice flat. 

"What do we do now?" Clint asks after the cigarette had burned all the way down. Part of him wants Bruce to say fuck it all. They can run off, buy another house, forget all about of the Avengers and all the bullshit they've got to deal with. The rest of him knows it's stupid and reckless and irresponsible. They're needed here, and for as much as Bruce likes running away, he's loyal to a fault. It's only a good quality when it works in Clint's favor. 

"Go back to work, save the world." Bruce twitches a little when a crash sounds from somewhere downstairs. "It's never boring around here. You have to give it that."

"Think we can ever…" Clint turns his back on the city, leaning against the railing. Bruce is watching him, mouth pressed in a thin line, eyes too dark to see properly. "Not now. It's too- You remind me too much of her. But. We were a good team, weren't we?"

"We still are," Bruce says. He taps the railing, a few stories above the massive A, and Clint shakes his head. Bruce turns and leans next to Clint, their shoulders not quite touching. He radiates heat, his presence so much larger than he is. "What do you want from me, Clint?"

"I don't know," Clint says honestly. He reaches out, telegraphing his movements, and presses the back of his hand to Bruce's. It's not right, it won't ever be right in the same way again, but it's comforting. "Did I ever know?"

"I'm still the smaller half of the Hulk," Bruce says. He doesn't pull away, which is more than Clint was expecting. "The person I was in there… I haven't been him for a long time. I can't be him."

"I'm not asking you to be," Clint says. He looks up at the sky and misses the stars. He's never been comfortable in cities and the past six years- past week, Jesus- has made the longing for solitude stronger. "I'm not- I've done a lot of bad shit too, you know?" He laughs, leaning back against the railing until he feels almost unbalanced. It's fitting. Bruce's hand twitches against his. "People call us heroes. That might be the biggest joke of them all."

They're silent for a long time. It's good enough. It's the closest to normal that Clint's felt since he woke up. He can't keep doing this. If he wants to try to- to get close to Bruce in this world, the real world, he can't depend on Bruce to make him feel better, but it's okay if it's just this once. He can have just this once. 

When he looks over, Bruce is watching him. Clint can see Naomi in the dark fall of curls over his forehead, in the wide stretch of his mouth. He wonders if he reminds Bruce of her, too. It can't be helped. It's good to have the reminder, as much as it makes his chest feel ten sizes too small. Bruce turns his hand, threading his fingers loosely through Clint's.

"I need time to…" Bruce squeezes his hand and lets go. A gust of wind hits Clint square in the spine, sending shivers through him. "I need time to separate what was real and what wasn't. You do, too. If this is just…" Bruce waves the hand that had been holding Clint's, aimless. "Leftover from the chamber, for you, it might be best if you sort that out now."

"You know, it's okay to be selfish every once in awhile," Clint says. Bruce gives him a half smile and shakes his head.

"Not for me." He hesitates before brushing a butterfly soft kiss across Clint's forehead. 

Clint watches him disappear back into the tower, stomach in knots. He climbs the railing and perches there, knees drawn up to his chest, forcing his balance. It's going to snow soon. He can feel it.

**Author's Note:**

> While there is no character death, warning for dealing with the loss of a child.


End file.
